Its beauty lies not in its people, but in a yesterday that ponders. And though it treads the path of now, they merely shed the load of the day and get on with tomorrow. The city ain't for the weak of heart, for a weaker hearth ties them. Grand in wrath, more grandiose in recovery, their scars too are a thing of the past.
Like the numerous buildings that line all the six-lane roads in South Bombay. Like the statues that stay put, even with flyovers erected around them- almost Matrix-like. They have resisted time, space (or the increasing lack of it) and the sea.
I feel like an alien here. Not because the pace is too fast for me, or the decibels too loud, but it always boils down to the people. I have made a few acquaintances though. Some, I call friends too. But they're not warm.
The distance bothers me here. Not because it is too large, but because there is so little space to travel it. So few means despite the buses and taxis and autos and private vehicles, despite the flyovers and bridges and sea link and foot-overs.
They have built their tiny bridges, when a large one could not be afforded. They have fought their way through train trips, when the larger wars gunned them down. Their angst is their own, no one shares it outside the city. Their problems are their own, not even their neighbours share them. So if this city's so synthetic, why do I love it so much?
I've never been happier than I've been the past 6 months. I'm left alone when I need my solitude. There's no dearth for good conversation. The breeze blows all the time. The stone buildings always offer the occasional marvel. But two years is all I can take of it. The happiness would kill me.